Over the Rainbow - A Man's Journey to Happiness
by goctyudicbdkvhb175749674
Summary: Being happy isn't easy, and Gilbert's case is no exception. From medieval villagers accusing him of being the Devil to undiagnosed chronic depression to trying to grasp his own gender preferences, Gilbert's had it rough for centuries. But, however slowly, self-acceptance comes with time. Over the rainbow this gay, albino man travels on his long journey towards happiness.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: Contains themes of cutting, suicidal thoughts, scenes of burning, and mentions of the Holocaust. If you are triggered by or sensitive to any of these, you deserve to know before you continue reading, if you decide to continue at all.**

 **Title: Over the Rainbow - A Man's Journey to Happiness**

* * *

Holy fuck. He was on fire. Fucking fire.

His skin burned and blistered as he screamed his damn throat raw. His clothes were burning. His mind was blurring. His heart was hurting.

"Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" The deafening screams of the villagers bellowed in his ears as they tore his hearing apart and tore his mind apart and tore him apart, too.

"Satan! Satan! Satan! Burn the spawn of Satan!" Screams, screams, screams, they filled the air with words of poison and hate. The chanting grew louder, and meaner, and made him want to scream and shout that thou not the damn Devil, but burning a boy will get thou to hell in quick haste as well!

"DEVIL! DEVIL! DEVIL!" the villagers cried. They watched him burn at the stake. They watched him, a child, burn, his frail body helpless against the flames that licked his skin and his clothes and his hair and ripped through his very soul.

The fumes stank. They were intoxicating. The yells drowned him. He was drowning in shouts and hate and flames.

At the top of his lungs, Gilbert fucking screamed.

The shrill sound that escaped his mouth sounded beastly, almost otherworldly, for he was on fire yet could not die. Air escaped his lungs at an almost ungodly pace as his screams drained every breath within him. It hurt so much, but he couldn't escape. He couldn't die and escape.

He wanted to die. He wanted nothing more than to just die, so that it couldn't hurt anymore, and he could see Vati again, and then he wouldn't be alone anymore.

He was so confused. He'd been confused for centuries. Ever since Vati left the earth, for what seemed to be forever, everyone had been afraid of him, angry at him, hateful of him. They told him the poison that was the belief that he was the devil. They told him that he was the devil because of his white hair and red eyes, and for that, the red eyes and white hair that had once made him special, the same red eyes and white hair that Vati had once told him were a sign of great things and a great future and a great him, were now the very cause of his burning.

Gilbert wanted to die.

Unbeknownst to him, this wouldn't be the last time. By far, this wouldn't be the last time he wanted to die.

Throwing his head back in pain and wailing for as loud as his throat allowed, Gilbert screamed at the top of his lungs for them to stop, or for him to stop, or for it to just go away. Gilbert wormed violently against the chains that held him down, but nothing came of that. His wrists burned as the hot iron rubbed against him. His burning hair stank even more than the rest of him. He watched as the cross on his Tunic Knight uniform burned. Burn, burn, burn, burn! Fucking burning! On fucking fire!

The tears that ran down Gilbert's face boiled away just as quickly as they came down.

He was one of them! He was the Tunic Knights! He wasn't the devil, wasn't the devil, he said!

"I'M NOT THE DEVIL! I'M NOT THE DEVIL! I'M NOT THE DEVIL!" Gilbert wailed, over and over and over. He felt his shouts knock the air out of his lungs, knock the hell and heave and hull out of them. Gilbert desperately gasped for air, but he could only inhale the smoke and fumes and ash.

His shrill cries for it to end cut through the forest and shook the trees, and after reasoning, then begging, then angrily proclaiming, Gilbert was now screaming, screaming at the top of his lungs that he wasn't the son of Satin, that he wasn't the Devil, that he was just like everyone else.

"I AM HUMAN! I BURN, JUST LIKE YOU! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT! I AM NOT THE DEVIL! I AM NOT THE DEVIL!" Despite his pleas, Gilbert was convinced that nothing but the flames could hear him.

"I AM NOT A WITCH! THY ARE CONFUSED! I AM NOT A WITCH! NOT A WITCH!" The screams fell on deaf ears.

"IT HURTS! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!" No one batted an eye. In everyone's mind, burning him at the stake wasn't wrong. They weren't going to hell for burning a child. Everyone thought that burning him, that burning Gilbert, was the righteous thing to do, that if they did, they could get into heaven and maybe even save Gilbert's soul, too.

His soul definitely did not feel saved. He felt like he was in hell before he even had the chance to die.

 _Vati would be so disappointed._

Gilbert wanted to die, but what he didn't know was that this wouldn't be the last time.

What he didn't know was that he'd spend centuries of his God-given life wanting to just end it all.

* * *

The moment Gilbert laid eyes on Hungary, he found himself enamored. Completely, irreversibly, undeniably enamored. Gilbert was fascinated, and star-struck, and the singing of his heart told him that maybe, possibly, probably, he was in love.

Hungary was gorgeous.

And tough as nails.

And so, so charming.

So, being the little boy that he was, it only made sense for Gilbert to torment the crap out of his crush.

Gilbert liked Hungary, but he'd never show it.

Gilbert teased Hungary, and fought with him, and at one point, Hungary even kicked Gilbert out of his house because the Prussian had tried to claim the territory that he was supposed to recover for Hungary.

Gilbert didn't mind, though. He didn't care what Hungary did to him; the song of his heart always guided him back.

Through the centuries, as either enemies or allies, friends or rivals, empires or subordinates, they would meet, again and again and again, and since no one objected, since no one questioned his feelings towards Hungary, Gilbert assumed that his preference for other boys was okay. Gilbert assumed that society accepted that he liked other boys, and with that his feelings grew and bloomed and blossomed into genuine and tender care for the other nation.

Gilbert thought, or rather knew, that liking guys was okay. No one objected, or burned him, or even spared a second glance, and as the years passed Gilbert and Hungary honestly couldn't help but run into each other, over and over and over.

He and Hungary spent so much of their younger years together, spent so much time fighting and bickering and laughing and scheming, that Gilbert honestly couldn't help but fall in love. Swinging swords, and swinging at each other, and generally being boys, Gilbert didn't suspect a thing about himself or Hungary. Everyone else just played along, with Gilbert all the while not questioning his gender preference at all.

And during those formative years, Gilbert could remember actually being happy. Despite him being a nation, Gilbert could confidently say that he didn't have a care in the world during that time.

. . .

He also had a hell of a time pissing Hungary off.

. . .

"Give that BACK, dammit!" Hungary demanded as he chased after Gilbert who, in his hands, was clutching Hungary's sword.

Gilbert laughed all the way through the woods, his form sprinting through trees as Hungary lagged behind due to Gilbert's head start.

Hungary's face was red with anger, and when Gilbert turned his head to see the tomato-faced boy chasing after him, he almost tripped as he began laughing his ass off.

"I'm warning you!" Hungary threatened. "I'll pummel you when I get my hands on that sword, got it?!"

Gilbert just cackled at the top of his lungs, and as he ran, the sound of his running and laughing and merriment echoed through the woods. He and Hungary were so loud, in fact, that they accidentally disturbed a flock of roosting birds, and when the startled birds flew in droves to get away from the running maniac and his pissed-off frenemy, the utter mayhem of the scene only exponentially grew.

Just for kicks and giggles, Gilbert pushed himself up a tree, and, with the sword he had stolen from Hungary, impulsively chopped the branch he had used to climb the tree so that Hungary couldn't get up.

"YOU PRICK!"

Gilbert could only laugh at the vein that was popping out from Hungary's forehead.

Hungary, on the other hand, was glaring daggers, an expression that honestly scared Gilbert, but he did what he usually did: put on a brave face and looked the big, scary, mean bear in the eyes.

"Nah, nah, nah-nah, nah! Can't reach it! Can't reach it!" Gilbert teased. His subsequent laugh spooked even more birds, and as the birds swarmed around him and Hungary and the tree, Hungary was still trying desperately to climb the trunk.

"You can't reach me! You can't reach me!" Gilbert screamed over the shrill cries of the birds.

"You DEVIL!" Hungary spat.

Gilbert was just about to bite back with a witty, awesome remark, but suddenly, he froze into place when he realized what Hungary had said.

 _DEVIL._

His joints stiffened, and his hands went numb, and his fingers dropped the sword, which landed onto the grass below with a muffled drop.

 _DEVIL._

"Hey! careful! That damn sword could've hit me!" Hungary looked at Gilbert, eyes narrowing with both flourish and annoyance.

 _DEVIL._

Gilbert couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.

At that moment the world stopped spinning, while at the same time Gilbert's head twirled, violently, at warp speed. Gilbert leaned against the trunk, and in all honesty he had no idea how in hell he was able to keep his balance, but Gilbert stood there, the memories of the flames eating him alive crashing down onto him like a house.

"Gilbert?" was the last thing he heard Hungary say, the last he'd heard at all, before things went blurry. Not black, just blurry. He didn't pass out; things were simply so hazy that Gilbert was so certain and sure that something had taken his soul.

The bleeding silence continued for a while, a while far too long for comfort, and suddenly the world began to spin again, and the birds were loud again, and somehow the height seemed scarier when he looked down.

Then, Gilbert did something he hadn't done since he'd burned at the stake. It'd been decades, perhaps a century or two. He hadn't done it in so long that now tears felt like fire and gunpowder and poison and arsenic on his face.

So strange, how very peculiar it was, that he had started crying.

He really, truly, uncontrollably, started bawling his eyes out like the child that he was, and such cries reminded him that he was only such, that he was only a child.

Gilbert brought his hands to his eyes, sat down on the tree branch, and tucked his head into his knees. He felt hot and light-headed, almost as if the world was about to end, and from the loud, monstrous, animalistic screams and sobs that escaped his mouth, it really, truly, absolutely felt like, and sounded like, the world was actually ending right before Gilbert's eyes.

He was trembling with his own sobs. His face was wet and salty with tears. His head pounded and ached, and he heard his teeth chatter under the chilly morning air, and really, he kind of felt like he'd just drop dead at the rush of anxiety.

How long he was there for, crying, he didn't know. All he did know was that after both the longest and shortest time, he looked up, and he fucking screamed.

Gilbert's eyes widened, and then the pair of eyes in front of him widened, and with that, with him being so startled and being given such a fright, Gilbert let out a blood-curdling, spirit-shattering, forest-clattering wail, and he would've fallen out the tree and splat onto the ground if he hadn't been tugged on by the cape.

Hungary sat there, right in front of Gilbert, face obviously confused and unsure with an even greater dab of confusion.

"Prussia?" Hungary harshly shoved Gilbert back onto his place on the tree branch, and he leaned in so close that for the first time in his life Gilbert felt truly scared of another nation. Of course people scared him; they always did, with all that they were capable of doing to both him and each other, but Gilbert was so scared, so intimidated, so frightened of Hungary that he felt like a deer at a hunter's bow.

He didn't know so at the time, but this, by far, would not be the first time Gilbert would be scared of another nation.

"Here, here," Hungary said, gently, quietly, softly. Hungary's smile was soft. His hand over Gilbert's shoulder was delicate, almost fragile and dainty. It almost convinced Gilbert that Hungary was a girl - foreshadowing for later.

"Hmm?" Gilbert looked up weakly, and on Hungary's finger sat a small yellow bird.

"Look, the bird wants to make you feel better," Hungary told him. With more care than Gilbert had ever seen Hungary with, Hungary set the little bird onto Gilbert's shoulder. "He's scared. He got lost and frightened when all the other birds started flying away, so he just stayed," Hungary started. "See? It's okay to be scared sometimes. He's scared; you're scared; I'm scared for you. We can be scared together."

"I'm not the devil," Gilbert muttered under his breath, embarrassed that he had been crying in the first place.

"So that's what made you go off?" Hungary asked.

Gilbert looked at Hungary, expecting to see an expression of mocking. However, to his surprise, Gilbert only saw concern.

Gilbert nodded. "Can we . . . can we never talk about this, again?"

Hungary nodded, too.

"I think he likes you," Hungary told Gilbert at the sight of Gilbert there, getting all cozy and snuggle-happy against's Gilbert's cheek.

"Gilbird," Gilbert stammered.

"Pardon?"

"I think I'll call him Gilbird."

"That sounds good."

As promised, they never talked about this again. Also, Gilbert never figured out how Hungary got up that tree, nor could he ever figure out how Hungary got both of them down.

Funny, how getting him down from that tree would be so much easier than him coming down from depression.

* * *

"H-here," Gilbert stammered as he threw his jacket to Hungary. "You can have it."

Hungary was sitting, weak and battered from battle, underneath a tree, and "he" looked at Gilbert, confused.

With that, Gilbert walked away, himself being equally thoroughly confused, confused about himself and his feelings.

As Gilbert almost hesitantly stumbled away, he mentally slapped himself for offering Hungary his crotch cloth. How stupid, how very stupid he was to think that Hungary was a guy for all these damn years! Dammit! Stupid! Stupid! So fucking stupid! Gilbert was really, truly, irreversibly shell-shocked at the revelation, and even as Hungary called for him back, off Gilbert went. He wanted to run, but his legs had gone numb. His mind had gone numb. Everything was just numb.

Hungary, the boy he'd grown up and fallen in love with, was . . . a . . . girl.

A GIRL. GODDAMMIT.

Gilbert could feel his heart break at that.

So that was why. That was why no one tried to stop him, or burn him, or question him. That was why his feelings for Hungary were accepted within society. All the men before who had been accused of sodomy, all those men who had been whipped and punished and fucking executed, and to think that no one even tried to do that to Gilbert. All this time, all this damn time, Gilbert thought that people were scared to burn him because maybe he was the devil, or maybe it didn't matter because he was a country, or maybe the people he had encountered were unusually accepting, or maybe he was just lucky. But they knew; they knew that Hungary had been a girl this whole damn time.

Gilbert felt like he was at the end of a joke where only he wasn't laughing.

That day, Gilbert's heart broke, and it took centuries for it to be patched all up again.

Gilbert promised that he wasn't crying. The sky was just kind of moody today.

* * *

Heartbroken, confused about his feelings, and with self-loathing continuously boiling through him, Gilbert spent the next few centuries conquering. That was all he could do. He just declared war, conquered everything within sight, and formed fleeting, temporary alliances, for too tender was his heart to form a friendship, much less a romantic relationship, much less a romantic relationship with his preferred gender. So large was his aversion to love that avoiding marriage had became a full-time hobby.

Also was a problem that the more he grew, the more he found the world unfriendly towards the homosexual man, and as even more time passed, Gilbert couldn't help but feel alone. It almost felt as if every single person who had engaged in a homosexual act ever had been imprisoned, perhaps even executed, and Gilbert really, really, truly felt as if he was completely, terribly alone.

He felt as if he was the only person who felt this way, and it felt wrong. He felt wrong. And all the while, he had no idea, no idea at all what to call himself. He wasn't a woman, yet he couldn't just describe the act alone. Liking men was more of a feeling; it was more about who he was, who he is, than anything else, and no matter how hard he pushed or how hard he tried to fight it, he could seldom deny that he liked men.

For the longest time, he never did figure out what to call himself and his feelings, but regardless, he, no matter what, chose to keep these feelings under lock and key. Even as loneliness ate away at him, even as his feelings of self-hatred grew, even as he felt more and more as if he was the only homosexual to exist in this day and age, silent Gilbert remained about his feelings and fancies and desires.

Broken over Hungary his heart remained, no matter how much he tried to nurse it himself.

Gilbert had tried denial, and he'd tried to ignore his feelings, and he tried to shove them down, shove them deep, deep, deep, far, far, far down into his stomach, and he tried to leave them there, but no matter how hard and valiantly he tried, Gilbert couldn't help it. Every time an attractive man passed by, he would catch Gilbert's eye, and Gilbert's heart would beat and his head would spin and his feelings, and lust, crept up once again.

He never acted on his desires; he didn't allow himself to act on them. However, he felt that they were wrong, that they were sinful. For that, he hated himself. He hated that he desired men in the first place, and he wished, wished and prayed and begged to God with all his heart that these feelings of his could be cured.

The feelings never went away.

One day, though, one fateful, terrible, mind-blowing, fantastic, fate-changing, world-altering day, Gilbert discovered something he was sure that he wasn't supposed to discover. So dark was the discovery, so dark was the part of himself that wanted to do this to himself, and so dark was his state of well-being that he honestly couldn't resist the temptation.

On that one, fateful, destiny-altering, mind-bending day, Gilbert accidentally nicked himself on his sword. It was just a small scratch, really, and it sat there innocently enough. The small, tiny, little, insignificant cut sat there, staring all beady-eyed at Gilbert, and just as Gilbert was about to simply wipe the blood off, the thought struck him.

1.

He pressed his finger against the blade of the sword, and another nick on his finger.

2.

His homosexual thoughts entered his mind, and he cut himself, again. The thoughts came back, but every time they came back he would nick his finger on his sword. He felt release, and after the release came a high. There was a buzz in his mind, and he couldn't stop.

3, 4, 5, 6.

Gilbert was floating, floating up higher than he'd ever been before.

It wasn't a big deal, he told himself! He would only scratch himself if his homosexual thoughts came to him, and maybe, with enough discipline, he could be cured of such thoughts and desires. Or at least that was the justification he used for harming himself.

However, the small habit, the small scratch of nicking himself whenever his homosexual thoughts came to him, would spiral. Down, down, down he'd go, for as the hatred he had for himself, the hatred of himself that greatly exceeded any hatred he could ever hope to conjure up for anyone else, grew, so did the red lines on his wrists.

Gilbert could truly say that he wanted to die.

* * *

"And who may you be?" Gilbert asked.

It was cold that day, and snowy, and dawning his cape and feathered hat, Gilbert had been wandering through the snow. Then, he found him. He found a small, fragile country with blonde hair and expressionless blue eyes, just there, standing in the cold, with little more than a wool shirt, a pair of trousers, and suspenders.

The little nation turned to him, and he simply, curtly, stoically said, "Germany."

Silence.

Gilbert reached his hand out, out to Germany's small one, and Germany gently took it into his own.

Germany looked up, and all Gilbert could feel was paternal and brotherly love.

Gilbert smiled, hoisting Germany onto his shoulder and proclaiming, "Well, if you're Germany, then you can call me big brother!"

Germany nodded. Gilbert felt a little less lonely now. Gilbert could sure as hell tell that Germany was headed for great, big, powerful things, and Gilbert would be there every step of the way.

"You feeling scared, little one?" Gilbert questioned as, with Germany hoisted on his shoulders, he trekked through deep and plentiful snow.

Germany didn't say anything, but Gilbert could feel him shake. As they journeyed through the snowfall, one thought more than any other dominated Gilbert's mind.

 _Holy Rome._

* * *

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Everything was happening so quickly, so damn quickly and speedily and suddenly!

What made the Great War happen? Why was everyone fighting each other? Then Gilbert watched in horror as his beloved brother Germany lost territory and strength and spirit, and he felt the restlessness of the world grow by the day, no, the minute.

Then the depression hit, and suddenly no one had anything, and people were burning money and using it as fucking wallpaper, and all the countries were sick and unwell, and the Prussian Empire was no more, and Gilbert felt empty, so damn empty, just like before

Well, he'd always felt empty, but empire building, and conquering, and Germany, made it a little less, made all the pain he felt a little more bearable.

And World War II, FUCK. They destroyed everything, fucking EVERYTHING.

Gilbert's head was spinning once more, and suddenly the Holocaust happened. Gilbert could hear his heart clench, his stomach churn, his head spin. What the hell was happening with his little brother? What the hell was happening in Germany?

People died, so many damn people! The Jews and Gypsies and Slavs and homosexuals. If Gilbert thought that all of the homosexuals were gone before, now he really knew what it felt like to be alone.

17 million.

17 million innocent people died. They weren't soldiers, or kings, or queens, or anyone who had any business being in war. Just regular people who died because someone said so. They didn't deserve to die. That was 17 million people, maybe even more, people who didn't deserve to die, dammit!

Gilbert couldn't stop it; he couldn't fucking stop it!

He felt horrible, like a monster, and he saw the country he had once loved become a monster. How monstrous, how horrifying, how gruesome it was to witness all the horror and death and dead bodies just laying there. The dead people who'd had so much to live for, gone, just like that, 17 million people. They were people. They were humans beings who didn't deserve to die, and Gilbert couldn't do a damn thing about it.

And then The Soviet Union came, and Gilbert suddenly found himself under the control of Russia.

He was without his brother, with a metaphorical iron curtain and a literal wall separating Europe, separating Gilbert from everything had ever cared about. Everything he'd ever loved, ripped away from him just like that, and on top of millions upon millions of dead bodies.

Gilbert couldn't stand all this fucking death.

Yes, humans indeed scared Gilbert to the very core; however, they scared him not with what they were capable of doing to him, but with what they could do to each other.

Gilbert opened his mouth and fucking screamed at the top of his lungs.

 _Just make it stop._

Gilbert, very much so, wanted to die.

* * *

Gilbert found Russia absolutely, positively, horribly horrifying.

Under the USSR, Gilbert saw even more people die. Even more lives gone to waste. And Russia was cruel, childishly cruel, as if he didn't know what right and wrong even meant.

The way he hurt his subordinates, and the way millions of people died, and then the Chernobyl disaster, even more lives gone to waste! When will it stop! Make it stop! Just make it stop! So much death! So much death everywhere he turned!

Gilbert wanted to die. He wanted nothing more that to just die already! Maybe it'd make up for all those who'd died before him, but not really. Gilbert just felt like he deserved to die somehow, and then he'd rot in hell, because he hadn't been able to stop the Holocaust, or the millions of deaths because of USSR policy, and probably because after all of that, after all he'd been through, Gilbert was still a homosexual through and through.

He still liked men, and he couldn't even fathom kissing woman.

The way the Soviet Union treated homosexual people, people like Gilbert, horrified Gilbert's very soul, but he'd be damned because he couldn't do a single fucking thing about it.

Gilbert really, really did hate himself.

And now he was here, in a bathtub sobbing his eyes out.

He felt so alone.

The self harm in which he had previously only occasionally partaken in, and _usually_ only to curb his homosexual thoughts, had morphed into marathon sessions of razor-blading.

Gilbert would sit in the bathtub for hours on end, just cutting his pale skin with a razor-blade. It was never enough. He could never cut himself enough. People died. People _died_ because he hadn't been able to do anything. He felt a sense of duty, almost atonement, to do something, anything about it.

3,456.

3,457.

3,458.

3,459 times he'd nicked himself.

But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

17 million people had died in the Holocaust, and Gilbert wouldn't stop; he told himself that he'd never stop, not until all 17 million of those lives had been accounted for.

Gilbert felt guilty, guilty as hell, for just letting all those people die.

3,460.

3,461.

3,462.

3,463 times he'd nicked himself. 3,463 reasons he loathed himself. 3,463 prayers to God that his homosexuality would just go away. 3,463 moments when he wanted nothing more than to just drop dead.

* * *

November 9, 1991.

The Berlin Wall was smashed, and crumbled, and denounced so that all on both sides could reunite.

Gilbert stood, desperately scanning the crowd for any sign of West. Gilbert leaped over people and climbed on top of ruble and took his part too in tearing down this fucking wall. His heart was going at an ungodly pace. His hands were trembling with sweat because it'd been so long since he'd seen his brother in person. So long, in fact, that he'd almost forgotten what West looked like. _Almost._

"GILBERT! GILBERT! I'M RIGHT HERE!"

Gilbert looked up, and there Germany was, standing there. Gilbert could see as clearly as day Germany standing over the edge of the Berlin Wall, waving his arms like a madman.

Gilbert started crying, fucking crying out of sheer joy.

He ran, ran faster than he'd ever in his life. He ran with more passion and gusto and determination than he thought he'd ever be capable of. Gilbert ran frantically to West. His arms were outstretched as for the first time in almost a hundred years, joy gushed through him. Gilbert was bleeding pure and utter joy.

Run, run, run, and suddenly, Gilbert was throwing himself into a hug with Germany.

Gilbert looked up; Germany was sobbing.

Amidst all the cheers, amidst all the happiness and reunions and chaos and noise and smashing and crashing and unrestrained human nature, Gilbert hugged West so tightly that he was surprised that he hadn't broken his brother's ribs.

It was cold, and loud, and there was rubble and stone and bits and bobs and blocks of Berlin Wall everywhere the eye could possibly hope to see, but West was there, in Gilbert's tight embrace.

"I missed you," was all Gilbert could say, all he could do, after so damn long.

"I missed you, too."

Gilbert wasn't afraid to admit that that day, he spent the entire rest of the night sobbing as he held his brother tight.

* * *

Gilbert's persistent bouts of sadness were in full swing. He didn't know why, but he couldn't help but feel so, so, so sad all the fucking time.

6,794.

6,795.

6,796.

Gilbert sat in the bathtub once again, this time at his brother's house rather than Russia's, but it was all the same. Gilbert still possessed the unstoppable habit and desire to just hurt himself.

6,797.

6,798.

6,799.

6,800.

The pain sent him up to Jupiter. He was so high off of pain.

He knew that somehow, he deserved it anyway.

Gilbert still fancied men.

After so long Gilbert thought that his desires would subside just a little, but they did not. He still craved the touch, the kisses, the love of another man. He couldn't get it to stop. His homosexual thoughts just wouldn't stop. And then all those people who died from the Holocaust, people who Gilbert hadn't been able to save. And all those people who'd died while he just helplessly watched during his time under the USSR.

It was his fault, all his fault because he couldn't stop it. They'd all died because Gilbert was so fucking useless! So fucking useless because he couldn't stop it!

Gilbert wanted to keep cutting. He wanted to keep cutting for eternity, until he had accounted for all that damn death and until he could be free of his homosexual desires.

Every night Gilbert would pray, pray to God, pray to the moon, pray to Vati, that one day, he'd wake up, and he'd want to date a woman instead of a man. And every morning he'd wake up, still wanting so badly the same gender. He wanted it so badly that it hurt.

6,801.

 _Gilbert wanted to die._

* * *

 **Okay, so that's it for chapter one! Fear not, though, for I plan to have chapter two posted very soon. I was originally planning to just make this a one-chapter thing, but it got so long that I decided to split it into two parts. I have another one-chapter story which is over twice as long as this one, but I NEVER WANT TO WRITE A 14,000+ ONE-CHAPTER STORY EVER AGAIN, so you're stuck waiting for chapter deux.**

 **I hope that you enjoyed this angst-fest, please review, favorite, and follow if you like this story because it lets me know that people are actually reading and interested, and other than that, I wish you a happy, turtle-filled existence. :)**

 **(Because turtles are the best!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: If you are triggered by or sensitive to descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, and/or self-harm, please consider that before continuing on with the chapter.**

 **Chapter 2: The End of the Beginning is not the Beginning of the End**

* * *

It was world conference day today. Those days were hard. First of all, running into Russia would be absolutely inevitable, a thought which made Gilbert and the scars on his back cringe. Those scars on his back, for once, had not been self-inflicted.

Then, it was all the people. Sure, Gilbert had spent most of his God-given life being lonely as a fly on the wall, but actually getting out there and, well, trying to make himself not lonely anymore was hard. Very hard. Far, far harder than it should have been.

Thirdly, Gilbert still, after all this time, hadn't told anyone of his homosexual desires, for he still hated himself for them. Gilbert still couldn't accept or tolerate or even pretend to ignore his internalized hatred of his own gender preferences, and no one, absolutely no one, could know that he liked men. Gilbert felt disgusting; he felt like a freak. Yet, the urge to tell someone, _anyone,_ ate away at his very being so ferociously that Gilbert knew not how much longer he could keep all this a secret.

Finally, no one, absolutely no one, could know that Gilbert had a self-harm habit. Well, at this point it'd become more than a habit. It'd become some sort of sick way of trying to make up for everything he had and hadn't done, a habit which bordered on an addiction to the pain. Gilbert feared that if anyone got to close to him they'd find out, and they'd find out about his homosexual desires, and he'd be even more a freak than he already was in the eyes of the world.

Yes, Gilbert really, truly, one-hundred-percent saw himself as a complete and utter freak. An abomination.

"Oh God! I'm sorry!"

In an instant, papers went flying to the ground, and Gilbert's shirt had suddenly gotten a dousing of coffee.

Gilbert almost let out a string of cuss words - cuss words that were meant more for himself than for the person who had inadvertently run into him - when he looked up. In his line of sight he saw the most gorgeous man he could ever have dreamed of laying eyes upon.

 _Gilbert, no._

But it was too late. His homosexual thoughts were flying every which way, dancing around him and taunting him and even giving him the audacity to think about flirting with this guy standing front of him. However difficult, Gilbert bit his tongue so that he didn't accidentally gush to this random man how cute and adorable and, frankly, beautiful Gilbert found him.

"No, no, it was my fault, really." Gilbert smiled. He didn't have the fight in him to be arrogant today; he was just so, so tired.

"Ah, shucks, don't worry about it." There the man went again, being all adorable.

"What's your name, anyway?" Gilbert asked. Now that he thought about it, the man in front of him seemed like a nation he should've have been able to ascribe a name to, but somehow he couldn't. It was as if this man had just five minutes ago dropped from heaven itself.

"Canada, but some people call me Matthew." So perfect and sweet was Matthew's melodious voice.

Gilbert's heart skipped a beat.

 _Gilbert, no._

His face went red.

 _Oh, God, Gilbert! Stop that! Stop thinking about that!_

Gilbert sighed when he thought about how many times he'd have to nick himself in order to give penance to such dastardly thoughts.

 _Fuck. Gilbert. Bad, bad Gilbert._

Matthew is the most gorgeous man on earth, and Gilbert just had to run into him.

 _Goddammit, Gilbert. Goddammit!_

"The name's Gilbert; the pleasure is all mine." Gilbert and Matthew shook hands.

Gilbert smirked in order to exude the confidence that he didn't have, "I am the _awesome_ Prussia!"

 _No, Gilbert. You're a complete and utter disgrace._

* * *

"So, Gilbert," Matthew began. Sweetly, quietly, gently, he spoke. "We've been kind of talking a lot lately. You want to grab coffee or something? Maybe hang out later?"

Gilbert said yes almost too quickly, and he mentally slapped himself for that.

However, Matthew didn't seem to notice, only replying with a, "Great! Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere you want."

"Which time?"

"I should be free tomorrow."

"Sounds good." Matthew smiled a smile that was like marigolds and sunflowers and warmth and sunshine and all things good.

Gilbert, on the other hand, felt like he was falling into a trap, for he was not supposed to desire so badly Matthew's friendship. He wasn't supposed to desire Matthew's romantic love.

Tomorrow came, somehow, even though Gilbert had somewhat wished that it wouldn't come, because then he wouldn't have to face beautiful Matthew and his own dastardly, repulsive, sinful homosexual thoughts. But also somehow, Gilbert had dragged himself to the coffee shop he and Matthew had agreed upon.

Now he was here, standing in front of a cafe he'd never been to and wanting to drop dead on the spot.

He found Matthew sitting at a table, his hair bouncing as soft, delicate curls; Matthew looked like perfection. Absolute perfection. It made Gilbert felt stupid for wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but doing laundry is hard when you're feeling sad all the time, dammit. Gilbert at this point wore the same sweater and jeans day after day after day, much to West's dismay, but under the false guise of laziness, no one really suspected anything.

Every day Gilbert wore a red sweater and black pants, because red and black hide blood well in case he hadn't bandaged himself up enough.

In all honesty, though, despite how hard Gilbert tried to keep his secrets, he almost wanted for someone to find out. He wanted for someone to expose him, to stop him from cutting himself and hating himself and loathing himself, to hold his hand and tell him that everything would be alright, but after all this time, after all this time of slipping underneath everyone's radar, Gilbert was not hopeful that someone would notice.

He was not ready for someone to notice.

When Gilbert approached Matthew and sat down across from him, his attention immediately snapped back to the blonde-haired nation in front of him.

Matthew looked fucking gorgeous. Fucking beautiful. Matthew's the most beautiful fucking person in the entire world.

Just to add to Gilbert's fighting feelings, Matthew wasn't wearing the suit Gilbert always saw him in; no, Matthew just had to be a damn tease and wear pants and a maple leaf sweater that looked really, really, really well on him.

"You look nice," Gilbert complimented, although he was unsure as to whether Matthew would take such a comment as flirting or not.

Matthew just smiled again and replied with a, "Thank-you."

Gilbert couldn't even remember what they ordered, much less what type of coffee each of them got, but he could remember this warm, buzzing feeling within his chest that he tried to shoe away. However, his sinful hopes and feelings wouldn't budge an inch.

"So, what do you like to do in your free time?" Matthew asked, innocently enough.

Gilbert opened his mouth in reply, and he almost blabbed his secret and spilled everything with a, _"Oh, well, the only thing I do in my free time is clean my bedroom, cry myself to sleep, and sit in the bathtub and cut myself with a razor-blade. I work out sometimes, too, but that's because people might get suspicious if I drop muscle mass and actually ask me if I'm doing alright."_

But he didn't. He just grinned and proclaimed, "I just spent all my free-time being awesome!"

Matthew giggled. "That sounds awesome."

"You bet!" _No, it's not awesome. Being awesome isn't awesome; being awesome is being lonely._

"But enough about the awesome moi," Gilbert started, the false smile that didn't quite reach his eyes stretching all across his face. "I want to hear something about you."

Thank God he'd been able to change the topic of conversation, for Gilbert couldn't stand talking about himself. It was like talking about his own worst enemy, because Gilbert's worst enemy was Gilbert himself. If not just depressing, there wasn't anything interesting about him, not anything at all, unless you wanted to count self-destructive tendencies and self-imposed isolation.

"Oh, um, I'm not that exciting," Matthew giggled. He sounded nervous.

That made Gilbert nervous. He had done something wrong? Gilbert couldn't help but wonder that; he'd spent so much time being lonely that he'd completely forgotten how to socialize.

"Come on! From what I've heard, you're not boring!" Gilbert pushed on. Anything, _anything,_ so that he didn't have to talk about himself and his issues.

"I don't know," Matthew shrugged.

They fell into awkward silence.

Matthew took a sip of his coffee, and Gilbert a bite of his pastry.

Gilbert almost threw up, but he pushed his discomfort and the bite of confection down. It should have tasted good, but as of late Gilbert found food completely and absolutely revolting and only ate so that West wouldn't get concerned. The last, last, last thing Gilbert wanted to possibly do was to get his brother concerned for him. West had so much to do, so much paperwork to sign, so many world conventions to attend, while Gilbert just spent his time free-loading off his younger brother.

Gilbert felt his chest tighten. He felt like a failure.

The rest of the short lunch passed by without either saying a word, and when the waiter came with the tab, Matthew had insisted on paying. Gilbert had tried to argue, but it was no use. The Canadian seemed so dead-set on being polite that it was almost astonishing.

"Well, thanks for the lunch," Gilbert said after the longest while. He had to say something, anything, because even though he didn't know how to express it, he felt so damn grateful that Canada had even taken the time of day to get coffee with him.

Matthew smiled at him, again. Again, his smile was perfect, and that made Gilbert feel imperfect.

"Thank-you, too. You know, you're the first person in forever who hasn't mistaken me for America," Canada replied as they were standing up to leave.

"Really?" Gilbert asked, quite shocked. "Sure, you two look kind of alike, but I think that it's pretty easy to tell the difference."

Matthew smiled again, but this time it was sad. "Oh, it's not a big deal, really."

They fell into silence again.

"I should go; need to make sure that Alfred isn't running around being the asshole of the world." Matthew chuckled dryly, his attempt at humor falling flat, but Gilbert laughed anyway.

"Yeah." But Gilbert didn't want for Matthew to go.

Then, Matthew was gone, out the door just like that, and Gilbert felt lonely again.

* * *

Gilbert didn't know why going to Canada's house was supposed to be so nerve-wracking.

Palms sweaty and mind in a state of tizzy, Gilbert felt so, so silly for being so scared. It wasn't as if Canada's polar bear would grow fangs and bite Gilbert's head off, or Canada was going to shoe Gilbert away directly after he came in, or the world was going to end in five seconds.

Somehow, though, as Gilbert walked through the ice and snow and the own fear within his heart, he wondered if judgement day would be coming upon him and him only.

As Gilbert approached the door to his friend's home, his hand froze.

He stood there for only God knows how long, legs locked and hands refusing to move in front of Canada's door. Out of context, Gilbert would've been sure that he was about to enter the gates of hell, and he had to remind himself that Canada was - is - nice and accepting and not an asshole like Russia.

Fucking Russia.

Gilbert's self-harm habit had really manifested into something real, real horrible and bad and destructive after being forced into the Soviet Union, and even after the fall of the Berlin Wall he still had nightmares about it. About Russia. About all those fucking people dying. About him not being able to do a damn thing.

He didn't know when, but after standing there for what seemed like forever, somehow, someway, almost as if God had snapped a finger, Gilbert's hand whipped up to the side of Canada's door and, regarding the button as if one wrong move would trigger World War III, Gilbert gingerly and hesitantly pressed the doorbell.

The _ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!_ that screamed from the other side of the door nearly made Gilbert jump and wail out of pure and utter fright. Why, oh why, oh why in the bloody fucking damn hell did doorbells have to be so loud and sound like a gong and behave like a war buzzer?

Gilbert half expected for the door to come exploding open and for one of Russia's military tanks to come barreling out. Gilbert slammed his eyes closed, slapped his hands over his ears, and knelt his head down to pray, his anticipation as high as the fucking sky for him to be smashed by a plane or gunned down by the KGB or locked in a cellar for six months by Russia himself.

However, danger never came. Gilbert tilted his head back up and unplugged his ears and slowly, slowly, slowly opened his eyes, and he saw Canada standing right there, an expression of mild confusion on his face.

Immediately, Gilbert's face turned red.

Gilbert felt so fucking embarrassed that a fucking doorbell had nearly been the cause of another meltdown. Yes, _another_ meltdown.

He had no idea what in hell was going on with him, but occasionally - okay, maybe not occasionally, more like several times a week - Gilbert would just feel himself shut down. He'd be floating floating, floating, but not in a good way, almost as if he'd left his body, almost as if he had died. He'd feel like he was dying, like he was spiraling down, down, down, into unbridled panic that couldn't be stopped. It was like an elemental force of nature. Nothing could slow it down, and nothing could stop the rising anxiety and the panic and the hyperventilation, but, also like a hurricane, it'd go as quickly and as suddenly as it had come.

Gilbert saw these panics through the lenses of embarrassment and shame and plain mortification. He felt that he'd been put on the spot, that Canada's eyes were peering down and judging him, and it took all he had within him to not just run away and to the hills and back home to cry his eyes out and cut.

The itch in Gilbert's arm was hardly imaginary. It'd been just yesterday, but he wanted to cut again. Subconsciously, Gilbert brushed the fabric over his arm. He felt the scabs and pain and self-hatred underneath them, and he bit his lip and hoped to God and to high hell that Matthew didn't have x-ray vision. No one, especially Matthew, could know that he self-harmed.

Gilbert felt like a freak for doing so. Just like his homosexual thoughts and desires, Gilbert felt so, so alone, as if he was the only person in the entire world going through such things, and it only came round with more cutting, more negative thoughts, more self-hate.

A deep, burning pit of despise for himself laid in Gilbert's belly, and the smoke and flames of self-dislike rose to Gilbert's throat and head and slowly suffocated him.

Gilbert looked up, up to Canada, and he half-anticipated for Canada to have already run away, to have already run away from this freak and abomination. But no, Matthew just stood there, his hands still on the doorknob and moist, slightly pink lips parted just so.

"Gil, you alright?" Canada asked. Gilbert blinked in surprised. Matthew didn't sound disgusted in the least. Just . . . Concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, awesome me's alright." Gilbert internally cringed. He sounded so weak, so helpless, so pathetic.

"Oh, come in! Come in!" Canada insisted as he stepped aside. "It's got to be freezing outside!"

Gilbert did as told, and he stepped out from the chill of winter and into the warmth inside of Canada's house.

Immediately upon entering, Gilbert was hit with a gust of warm, then with a whiff of lemon, cinnamon, and a slew of unidentified but pleasant spices.

"Wait." Gilbert stopped upon smelling the scents inside Matthew's house. He took a few steps back, and he must have looked absolutely ridiculous. However, while he had no concern over his own safety or well-being, Gilbird's was at the top of his priorities. "I'm really sorry, but a lot of scented air-fresheners and candles are really bad for birds." Gilbert nudged Gilbird, who was perched on his shoulder, just slightly for emphasis.

"Oh, I should have told you," Canada giggled, his face now slightly flushed with red because the door hadn't been closed yet and was letting in the cold. "I'm just boiling some lemons and spices on the stove. That should be fine for birds."

Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief and finally closed the door behind him. He felt safe now, somehow. Maybe it was how warm Matthew's home was, or maybe because the other nation had taken the time to consider Gilbird's needs, or maybe it was just Matthew there, standing in front of Gilbert with his beautiful hair curls and soft smile and calming hands over Gilbert's shoulder.

Matthew went into his kitchen, so Gilbert followed. They were now at the stove, where the lemons and spices were boiling away, and Matthew reached his hand to the gas supply.

"I'm just going to turn this off," Matthew told Gilbert.

Once that was in order, and with the house still smelling like Christmas, Gilbert and Matthew sat down on Matthew's couch.

Gilbert leaned his head back and sighed. Matthew's couch was so soft. And warm. And welcoming. Just like Matthew. Gilbert closed his eyes and reopened one, and he saw Matthew leaning close and smiling.

"You look cute like that," Matthew commented.

The heat rose to Gilbert's face even before Matthew had finished.

 _No, Matthew. I'm not cute; you're the cute one._

 _Also, I suck._

"What do you want to do?" Gilbert questioned. He couldn't think of anything, for he didn't really do anything another than eat, sleep, clean, workout, cry, and cut. Gilbert's life was now boring. It was so, so dull, if not painful, and suddenly Gilbert could feel himself turn self-conscious because of how little he'd been doing lately.

"Video games?" Matthew asked.

Gilbert nodded almost too fast. Something, anything, to not just sit there in a puddle of his own thoughts.

Matthew stood up to turn on and pull out the gaming console, and soon the both of them were sprawled on the couch, frantically pressing buttons as Gilbert lost again and again to Matthew, much to his embarrassment. When Gilbert said that he didn't really do anything other than eat, sleep, clean, workout, cry, and cut, he meant it. He didn't go out, or even drink anymore because hangovers made him even more miserable, or play video games, or watch movies, or go over to anyone's, _anyone's,_ house.

The last time he could remember going to another person's house was when he'd been made out to live in Russia's house, and Gilbert had to force himself to stop thinking about that and just enjoy Matthew's company.

"I lost again, dammit!" Gilbert threw the controller down, although he made sure to throw it onto the couch so that he didn't actually damage it. He didn't want to damage anything, or hurt anything, or even be a bother. No, no, no, he'd been so much of a failure that the least he could do was to not burden his friend.

Matthew didn't say anything, probably because there was nothing polite to say about Gilbert's almost spectacular losing streak, and the man just laughed slowly, gently, cutely.

Gilbert's cheeks flushed again, and indignantly he turned away and crossed his arms.

"You want to do something else?" Matthew asked between giggles. He leaned in close to Gilbert, and Gilbert could feel himself tense.

Why did Matthew have to tempt him so? Matthew's chin was on his shoulder now, and the heat in Gilbert's face only intensified.

Alas, Gilbert pushed his desires, and wants, and his own self down.

 _No, Gilbert._

 _Matthew doesn't deserve your devious, sinful feelings._

 _Keep them to yourself._

Gilbert just shrugged. "Dunno."

"Hungry."

Gilbert and Matthew jumped slightly and abruptly drew apart, and even though Gilbert wouldn't admit it, he felt a loss now that Matthew wasn't touching him anymore.

"Kuma?" Matthew turned to Kumajiro, who had now stood up on the couch and was facing both Gilbert and Matthew, the bear's expression blank and his hand on his stomach.

"Hungry," Kumajiro repeated.

"Well, let's get you something to eat." Canada scooped Kumajiro up into his arms, and he turned his head towards Gilbert. "Hey, Gilbert, are you hungry, too?"

Gilbert shook his head no.

"Really? It's seven in the evening, though, and you came here at one. Are you sure?" Gilbert felt like shrinking because Canada sounded so worried.

Wait.

Gilbert swung his head around and looked at the clock on the wall, and sure enough, it was seven thirty. In the evening. Gilbert had been here for six. Hours. Six. Fucking. Hours.

"Holy shit," Gilbert muttered underneath his breath. He wasn't used to time flying by like this. Usually, every second, every moment that had passed was slow, too slow, even excruciatingly so. This was different. The feeling of time going by quickly was new to him, and now that Gilbert thought about it, he'd really, really enjoyed his time at Canada's house. Gilbert was comfortable, and he felt safe, and Canada's house smelled so nice, and Gilbird like it, too.

Gilbert looked back at Canada, who now stared at him intently, eyes wide and curious.

"Gil?"

Canada's word had snapped Gilbert out of it, and Gilbert, after a strange, fuzzy feeling had melted his heart away, found himself back in reality.

"Oh, um." Gilbert sat on the couch, cross-legged and feeling helpless. Canada already stood up with Kumajiro in his arms.

"You sure you don't want to eat something?" Canada repeated.

"I mean, I might stay for dinner. That. That'd be nice," Gilbert began with himself feeling quite very flustered. Then he added, almost frantically, "If you don't mind, that is!"

"Of course I don't mind." There Canada went. Again. Smiling that perfect, warm, lovely smile of his. Being polite, so polite, and nicer to Gilbert than what he deserved.

"Alright! Sounds awesome!" Gilbert gently scooped Gilbird out of his hair and put him down on one of the sofa's pillows. Gilbert tacked on in explanation, just in case he'd confused Matthew, "Birds aren't supposed to be in the kitchen with you when you're cooking. It's bad for their breathing."

"It's so adorable that you know so much about birds," Canada said, his voice holding what Gilbert could only tell was interest.

"Really? I dunno; I'm kind of boring, really," Gilbert replied, face continuing to redden by the second. The embarrassment over how much his face had been turning red only made him more, well, red. Gilbert looked off to the side and kicked an imaginary rock, and he honestly felt like a silly junior high school girl talking to her crush.

"I think you're interesting." Canada smiled.

Gilbert looked up at Canada, and he almost cried when he realized that he couldn't even remember the last person who'd smiled at him and really, really, truly, positively meant it.

* * *

They'd known each other for over a year now, and while Gilbert still refused himself the relief of telling Matthew about, well, about everything, about all his desires and unhealthy coping habits and internalized self-hatred, Gilbert was the happiest he could ever remember being when around Matthew.

He hadn't felt this way since he'd fallen in love in Hungary, and for that, he feared with all his heart that it'd get broken again.

Still, at this point, Gilbert and Matthew spent so much of their time together.

They clicked, slowly at first, but once their comfort around the other person had grown, their friendship was almost instant. They'd eat pancakes together, and Matthew's pancakes were the only food since forever that didn't make Gilbert want to vomit.

Lately West had been questioning why Gilbert had so quickly developed a liking to pancakes, and no matter now many times Gilbert told West that he liked pancakes because Matthew's pancakes were the absolute best, West could never seem to remember Canada's name. In fact, strange thing was, that _no one_ remembered Canada's name, not even his own bear.

At first Gilbert thought that he was going crazy, him borderline convincing himself that such a warm and lovely presence that was so kind and nice and gentle to him couldn't have existed, and perhaps Canada was something his fucked up mind had made up just to cope with the world. However, France of all people had quelled his worries when he'd told Gilbert that for one reason or another, even though Canada actually exists and is actually quite powerful and wealthy and engages frequently within world affairs, no one notices Matthew.

The idea in itself was and is . . . strange. But Gilbert notices Matthew, and Matthew notices him.

Gilbert had no idea how Canada managed to stay so happy and even content when barely anyone could do so much as see him, but at least this content nature of his friend was exactly what Gilbert needed to have the motivation to keep on living.

He and Matthew would also cook together, and play with Kuma and Gilbird together, and ride bikes together, and eat ice cream together, and sleep over at each other's houses, and somehow Gilbert had moved into Matthew's house at some point along the road, and do every conceivable thing anyone could ever hope to possibly think of together. Even paperwork. And Gilbert hated, and still hates, paperwork.

But, he had all the free time in the world, so he could at least help his friend file tax returns every once in a while. So. Many. Damn. Tax. Returns. Gilbert remembered the days when taxing everyone required an infinitely less number of dead trees and bureaucracy, the days when censuses didn't have to be carried out with millions upon millions of people to count. Well, everyone also died of the plague back then, so Gilbert supposed that exchanging plague for bureaucratic cluster-fucks was better than, you know, millions still dying from plague. Gilbert shuttered. More dead bodies he'd witness when he'd been a nation; he didn't want to think about that.

Now that Gilbert was no longer a nation, though, he found that he had all the time in the world. Before meeting Matthew, the sheer lack of things to do proved disastrous, as the boredom and lack of responsibility and lack of impact his life possessed just spiraled and spiraled and spiraled until Gilbert was on planet lonely.

But helping Matthew with Canada's paperwork, and babysitting Kumajiro, and cooking with Matthew, and doing practically everything with Matthew, kept Gilbert's mind busy. It gave Gilbert something he desperately needed: a cure to his boredom.

And Matthew himself had helped Gilbert, too, even though Matthew had no idea that Gilbert cut himself or that Gilbert felt empty and hollow and sad.

A little while back, Matthew, upon noticing that Gilbert didn't have anything to do, encouraged him to move on over to Canada for a while and go to college, an idea Gilbert was initially hesitant about, but six months into it, Gilbert found himself actually enjoying his history course. It wasn't much, and it only filled a part of his time, but Gilbert had something to do. He had a reason to wake up in the morning. He had something to look forward to. It helped with his socialization as well because while he hadn't made any close friends from university, he was able to talk to people again.

Also, being an ex-nation and experiencing the actual history - not that anyone on the campus actually knew that Gilbert was the ex-nation of Prussia - helped Gilbert just breeze through the course, something that might have made a human feel hollow, but, and Gilbert knows that he's lucky when he's saying this, college was kind of there just to get him out of his rut. He'd gotten his head out of the gutter, at least part of the way, and while he didn't plan to go to college forever, not even knowing if he'd sign up for the next semester, Gilbert could definitely say that going to college lifted him up, even if by just a tiny bit.

Maybe he'd get a job next or something, or try another course, Gilbert didn't know, but what he did know was that he no longer felt complete, crushing boredom for all hours of the day, and that was good enough for him.

At the moment, though, Gilbert wasn't worrying about any of that. He wasn't in college right now because they'd closed for the winter holidays, and Matthew had some time off work. Now, they were just in the snow and mucking around.

 _Smack!_

A snowball had made its way to Gilbert's face, and Gilbert glared at Canada in false anger.

"Oh, IT'S ON!" Gilbert exclaimed. "You're not the only country who gets snow, you know!" He quickly scooped up a snowball of his own, aimed, and threw it onto Matthew's chest.

Another snowball to Gilbert's face, and Gilbert was cursing Matthew's Canadian powers.

 _Smack!_

 _Whoosh!_

 _Plunk!_

 _Thunk!_

Snowballs flew everywhere, and Gilbert and Matthew were engaged in their snowball fight to a comical extent.

Gilbert didn't know how long they'd been at it, but he was laughing all the way. Mercilessly, the two friends pelted each other with snow, and by this point, the once refined, round, glorious balls of snow that had been thrown were currently crude globs of ice. They didn't really even care about the fight in a snowball fight anymore; it was just kind of fun chucking snow at each other.

Finally, Gilbert and Matthew met the other in the middle of the snowfield, and in their shared exhaustion, they both collapsed into the snow. Their heads were right next to each other with their feet pointed at opposite directions, and Gilbert let out a pure, genuine, unrestrained laugh of complete and utter joy.

Gilbert felt happy, so, so happy.

"You're better than I thought," Matthew remarked between his bouts of panting.

Gilbert, even though he couldn't see Matthew's face that well, could still feel the Canadian's smirk.

"Yeah, and if you practice enough, you can be as awesome as me!" Gilbert bit back.

The two started laughing uncontrollably, and Matthew sat up, his soft, gentle, kind face looking over Gilbert's.

Matthew looked absolutely lovely. The way his hair fell from his face, the way his glasses fogged up, the way his lips had turned pink and his cheeks had turned red from the cold. Matthew was - is - absolutely, positively, undeniably beautiful. That day, Gilbert wanted so badly to kiss Matthew, but he resisted the urge.

Gilbert smiled. Yeah, he for sure still had a shitload of problems, but when with Matthew, he felt like the luckiest man in the world.


End file.
